


two of my favorite things

by saltyypercy



Series: (there would be nothing tragic) in all my dreams of you [2]
Category: Percy Jackson and the Olympians - Rick Riordan
Genre: F/M, anyway, percabeth drabbles are always fun, why do you ask, yes i was listening to billy joel when i wrote this
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-18
Updated: 2020-12-18
Packaged: 2021-03-11 04:08:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 763
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28158828
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/saltyypercy/pseuds/saltyypercy
Summary: He’s leaning against the kitchen doorway toeing his shoes off before she realizes he’s home. She turns to him smiling—and it’s a wonder she hasn’t gotten any food coloring on the white shirt because there’s a smudge on her forehead and her cheek and one down on her thigh and she’ll have to wash her hands 27 times before the color starts to disappear—and he can’t help but smile back.
Relationships: Annabeth Chase/Percy Jackson
Series: (there would be nothing tragic) in all my dreams of you [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1821649
Comments: 4
Kudos: 50





	two of my favorite things

**Author's Note:**

> I posted this to my tumblr a while ago but I guess I never put it on here.

It’s moments like this, when Percy pushes open the door of their apartment at 11:37 p.m after leaving the station late and pads into the kitchen to find her, clad in nothing more than a white button-up and black panties, blue-stained hands holding the old tattered notebook from his mom as she jumps around the kitchen to “We Didn’t Start The Fire” playing in the background, that make everything worth it.

He’s leaning against the kitchen doorway toeing his shoes off before she realizes he’s home. She turns to him smiling—and it’s a wonder she hasn’t gotten any food coloring on the white shirt because there’s a smudge on her forehead and her cheek and one down on her thigh and she’ll have to wash her hands 27 times before the color starts to disappear—and he can’t help but smile back. Her hair is a riot, curls falling every which way, and cheeks tinged pink from jumping around, and Percy thinks she’s stunning (even if he can think of another activity that would do the same, only, in his opinion, it would be far more fun). He lets his eyes wander a little further and  _ good gods _ , the top two buttons of her shirt are undone and the material isn’t that thick and he can  _ see _ through it, and suddenly he’s 17 again, thirsting over his stupid hot girlfriend. 

He raises an eyebrow and unties his tie, tossing it over the back of a chair. 

**“Is that my shirt?”**

She catches her lip between her teeth. “Maybe,” she mumbles, her voice somewhere between abashed and sly.

“Oh, _maybe_ , huh?” He smirks and steps towards her.

She takes a step back towards the counter and tosses the notebook on the table. 

Somewhere between teasing comments and the ticking of the kitchen timer, he ends up in front of her, hands on her hips as he lifts her onto the counter and lips seeking out her collar bone.

Her breath stutters against his skin, back arching to press against him as his lips continue their work on her neck and his hands slip under her shirt— _ his _ shirt—while hers work to unbutton his.

  
He wonders how he got so lucky, how he’s able to come home to this—his wife dancing in the kitchen ( _ their _ kitchen), baking his favorite cookies out of his mom’s recipe book. If you would have asked  15-year-old Percy what his life would look like in 10 years, he probably would have told you he expected to be six feet under the ground. He wouldn’t have said he’d be here in their apartment, his hands unbuttoning his best friend’s shirt while she tugs his belt out of the loops. 

But maybe they deserve it. Their lives weren’t easy, even by demigod standards, and he thinks, maybe he deserves to be here, tugging her closer to him, pressing into her while she slides her hand along the waistband of his boxers. 

He nips at her neck and moves his lips to her face, peppering kisses against her nose, her cheeks, the corner of her lips. She smiles, catching his lips with her own and leaning back on to her elbows, the innocence of her smile a stark contrast to the weight of her gaze—a gaze that sends heat rushing to his core.

“If you keep kissing me like that,” she pulls away and breaths against his neck, “I’m going to have to retaliate,”

He grins and presses his head to her shoulder, struggling to keep the eagerness from leaking into his voice. “What kind of retaliation are we talking?”

She laughs, “Well, I could—” the kitchen timer goes off and he rips himself away from her, eyes lighting up. She’s left sitting on the counter watching him rush around the kitchen pulling cookies out of the oven and a glass out of the cupboard. He’s smiling softly when he comes back to her, cookies in one hand and milk in the other.

“Those clothes look good on you, by the way,” he winks at her, the way he’s done a million times before.

A blush creeps up her neck. He loves that she’s been stealing his clothes since the week they started dating and he can still make her do that—although, in her defense, he flusters just as easily.

He dips his cookie in the milk and takes a bite, wrapping his arm around Annabeth’s shoulders and pulling her into him.

“Two of my favorite things,” he says. “My wife and blue chocolate chip cookies.”


End file.
